


A Slave's Gambit

by CalamityCain



Series: Planet Sakaar: Misadventures, Misery and Mayhem [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), BDSM, Gags, Gladiators, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Multi, Muzzles, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Bondage, Objectification, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rough Oral Sex, Sakaar (Marvel), Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 14:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18896905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: After Loki escapes imprisonment during the time heist events of 2012, he lands on Sakaar and is forcibly parted from the Tesseract, his only bargaining chip. The only chance to win back his prize – and freedom – lies in surviving a slew of deadly duels in the Game of Champions. Meanwhile, Thor finds himself on the same ruthless planet after unintentionally leaping across time as well as space in pursuit of his fugitive brother. Can he save Loki from perishing as a slave of Sakaar?





	1. Wins & Losses

**Author's Note:**

> (my FIRST ENDGAME FIC because I'm slow)
> 
>  **Invaluable resources:**  
>  https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Planet-Hulk-Gladiator-Guidebook  
> https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Sakaar  
> https://aliens.fandom.com/wiki/Great_Devil_Corker  
> https://aliens.fandom.com/wiki/Mawkaw_Magkong  
> https://aliens.fandom.com/wiki/Fillian_Dragon
> 
>  **The Dome,** a location I made up for reasons, first appeared in this fic  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179228

 

Soft light brushes the corners of the dark arena, teasing the outlines of a lithe sorcerer in deep blue silks slashed to show titillating slices of skin. The fabric that does not cling to his well-honed form hovers like seagrass teasing bare thighs. A mere bit of showmanship: a little touch to enhance his appearance. In this arena, to be dull is to court death.

As the battle reaches its climax, the silk will crackle with the fire of a hundred suns from the powerful magic running through his veins. For now, it is enough to see the slim knife of his smile and the gleam of his eyes. Enough to see him sway with the shadows before he breaks into whip-like speed.

His head is held high. He bows to no one, not even the Grandmaster. They love his haughtiness; they all but demand it. He raises his hands to drink in the crowd’s adulation. And they give it to him, passionately. Like beasts they bay for blood. But it is not his blood they want to see soaking into the sand.

In the Crown City of Sakaar, the reigning Champion is all but untouchable.

It had not always been this way.

 

~

 

**NEW YORK, 2012**

 

Time moved like the spill of a soul-sapping sludge as Thor reached for his brother, fingers brushing the edge of that green cape a half second before it disappeared with the rest of its wearer. When the case containing the Tesseract had dropped its treasure so invitingly before them, it was little surprise when those quick long fingers wrapped themselves around it in a breath. The commotion caused by the Hulk bursting through the door in a fit of stairs-induced rage caused mere seconds of distraction. But seconds was enough.

Loki’s eyes met his, faintly lit by the blue glow of that accursed cube and what lay within, although no longer possessed by it. He had always been drawn to that which was worst for him. And after all, a force that carved doorways between worlds was hard to resist for a liar and thief who had reason to move quickly through the arteries of space.

He felt his lips mouth _Loki, no,_ in that strange slow motion. Though Loki’s own lips were obscured by that necessary muzzle, the two of them were long used to speaking without words. And Loki’s scattered glance – like that of a gazelle who must run or be taken by the lion – told him caution had been thrown out the window.

Still, he tried. Of course he did. Surrender was not in his nature. 

In a blink, his brother vanished into the black of the hasty rip he had opened. The tear healed itself around him like dissipating smoke.

But Thor had not had his runes seidr-carved into those bindings in vain. Ignoring the rising panic around him – _“what is he doing?”_ “Thor, _wait!”_ – he followed the cooling traces the magic-worked metal had left behind, reaching through the gap a millisecond before it closed 

He found himself hurtling through time as well as space, years into the future. Far away from any realm he knew (and he had been to so many) in a pursuit he must have made a hundred times. To avoid the heavy judgment of destiny, Loki seemed fated to run. And his own fate to follow in that mercurial, teasing trail.

 

*

 

That familiar scent of enchanted metal always made him shiver, even if its purpose was to keep his sly tongue locked away and his magic dampened. Neither of them were strangers to the temptation of such spellwork, its ability to strengthen one’s abilities to dizzying heights or to sap it away and leave one breathless. The steel that locked his jaw and lips in place, and bound his wrists, was of the enervating kind. He deeply resented its effect now; he could not say the same for the one whose name was carved repeatedly, in barely-visible runes, into the intricate designs. 

Runes that marked him, rather demeaningly, as the prisoner of one Thor Odinson.

 _If only you knew, fool,_ he thought with the venom of those who love passionately and secretly, _that I need no shackles to be your prisoner._

Thor was firm but not forceful in the act of silencing hm. Interesting, how he was less merciful in bedplay than in subduing a dangerous demigod. But he had not expected his brother to be carrying such a device – the very same they had used on each other before, wickedly, playfully, as part of a ritual that ended either in a storm of urgent indulgence or a slow drawn-out dance of hot breath on sweat-softened skin and hips that locked together so perfectly, one would think they had spilt intertwined from the same womb.

“Brother” – the only word that fell from Thor’s tongue as his gaze smouldered with regret and love. In the eyes of others, the metal gag was a restraint, nothing more. They could not hear the pause of his heart nor catch the flutter of his lashes as he caught his breath to steady himself. They could not feel the rush of heat beneath his leather armour and the involuntary throb of want between his legs.

Thor’s thumb brushed his jaw for but a spilt second. It was enough to draw a stifled moan. The electric blue eyes cautioned him not to give them away. As if Loki cared what these short-lived earthlings thought of their bond! Let them play by their puny rules, and he by that of the old gods. Let him be branded as Thor’s shame and downfall forevermore. It was a role he had shown himself more than willing to play. Again and again, until one of them fell. Perhaps this time it would be Thor.

Although he would rather it be him. 

His head has been on the chopping block for long enough; he was slowly tiring. Let the axe of mercy swing, and end it at last. To die would be easy. And it was clear which of them was worthy of the battle to live.

Their stares met and held each other’s with an intensity unmatched by any mortal passion. For a moment, Thor’s hand wavered, reached for him again. _Touch me._ A wordless dare. _Let them see._  

Those warm, calloused fingers brushed his flesh. Even bound by the muzzle’s enchantment, he felt his clothes begin to melt away as if by sheer will…

An explosion of mortar blew his faint hope astray. 

“HULK HATE STAIIIRRSS!!”

One thing led to another, almost too fast for even his wily senses to follow. A chaotic cacophony that would have, in other circumstances, been his to dance around and command – setting off a series of incidents that led to the silver case containing that glowing jewel to spill open and present him with an offer he surely would be fool to refuse.

A chance so readily given might not be given again for a million years.

His eyes did a quick sweep of the room. Such flighty, easily distracted creatures were these. His fingers were trembling as they hung on to the hard edges of the Tesseract. Already the treasure within called to him in a cool blue voice he refused to answer.

Except it didn’t matter, did it? Those who wield a Stone of such power will in turn by wielded by it.

Such was the will of fate. He closed his eyes, inhaled, and as he opened them again he saw Thor reaching out for him. But it was too late. He shut the door on the chaos of human voices and the roar of his brother rising above them all, calling his name, as he let himself fall – once more – into the great unknown.

 

~

**SAKAAR**

**CROWN CITY, 2019**  


The sorcerer faces the many-limbed monster with a cold gaze and ice forming at his fingertips. He stills his heart, wills himself to wait. After much pawing and huffing, the opponent – eight times his size if not more – finally charges. It is a genetically modified Devil Corker, the arachnid limbs ending in pincer hands. Each of those eight hands wields a cleaver that slices through the air with fierce precision. 

But even they are no match for the conjured blades that shoot forth with blinding speed and embed themselves into the corker’s flesh in a blink.

The corker’s roar of pain and rage shakes the arena. It is slowed by a mere two seconds; but those seconds are enough for a second volley of blades that slice off all eight limbs. Stunned at this grievous loss, it sways on the spot and lets out a jagged howl before stumbling forward and crashing into the sand. 

Silence falls. Then the rumble of applause begins. Topaz of Gwendor, the Grandmaster’s second in command, orders the fallen creature’s slaughter with the wave of a hand. A well-armoured troupe approaches to put it out of its misery.

The sorcerer is not impervious to harm: his thigh is bleeding heavily, having taken a blow from one of the cleavers. He heals it with a wave of his hand, doing just enough to last for the next two battles. He knows he must conserve his resources for what lies ahead.

 

*

 

Thor had been acquainted with many forms of torment. But this one was both new and cruelly prolonged. For as long as he had been alive, he had been the one facing danger head-on. Loki occasionally helped and more often removed himself from the direct path of fire. Plotting and shooting from afar: that was his brother’s strength – and, when he was in a mood, taunting Thor’s lack of prowess from a vantage point.

But now their positions were reversed. He had expected, at the very least, to land in the same dimension when he had made the impulsive decision to follow the jagged trail made by Loki’s wielding of the Space Stone. Instead it had thrown him off course not by miles, but _years._ disorientated and bewildered, he had been dragged off to be locked in this accursed cage that mocked the form of a throne, while a chuckling tyrant tickled his ears with a string of jests, each more infuriating than the last. And his beloved Loki was the one being made to ward off beast after beast in a fight for his life. This second show of the night involved a Mawkaw magkong, its maw dripping magma and murder.

“So talented. So strong, so full of… _spark._ My lovely little Loki.” The Grandmaster smiled broadly. “He _is_ lovely, isn’t he? I chose that outfit, you know. I choose each and every one of them.”

“Not. Yours,” growled Thor beneath his breath. 

“Say that again?”

“He does not belong to you.”

“Oh, I think both he and I will beg to differ. You see, we ahh…developed a special relationship, over the years. He had to start near the bottom, of course. Not _too_ near; he’s too precious for that. But oh, he climbed fast. As fast learners do.” The tyrant’s voice dropped to a low, almost sensual purr. “It’s something I see with every slave who shows _promise_. The sooner you know your place, the sooner you are able to rise above it – ”

It took a moment for the word to sink in. “Slave?” His fists clenched painfully as a storm brewed beneath his skin. “Loki was – is – ” 

“What? Oh, did I use that word again? I mean, you know, they’re not _actual_ sla…Topaz, what’s the term we use here?”

“Prisoners with jobs?” 

Thor frowned. “How is that any better?”

Before he could get a satisfactory answer, roars and whoops rippled through the crowd. Loki had narrowly dodged the magkong’s massive attack in the form of a jet of lava. Thor felt chilled and queasy. Loki had gone on the defensive, throwing up shield after ice shield to neutralise the magkong’s constant volleys. He could tell Loki was trying to form a more extensive shield around the monster but with very limited success. 

“He needs to get to higher ground,” Thor muttered. “Get above him, Loki!”

His brother must have heard him; but his advice turned out to be a deadly mistake, for just as Loki’s head turned in the direction of his raised voice, the magkong struck. Loki fell to the ground and threw up a force field that only just saved him from utter annihilation beneath the fiery magma shower.

The molten liquid cooled and blackened around the mound beneath which Loki presumably lay. For a long, terrible moment, the arena fell quiet as the magkong rose to its full height, its ugly amorphous mouth forming a triumphant leer.

Then a shark crack cut across the quiet. Loki’s slender, gleaming form broke through the dome of ice and flew upward. Golden cords shot out from his fingers to both encircle and penetrate the lava monster, binding and piercing it simultaneously. Before the magkong could recover, he wove a tight net of frost around its body until it was shrieking and shrinking, hardening into a black brittle mound with glowing lines of magma still trying to seep through and melt the enchantment. But Loki kept at it, like a spider weaving a frenzied web.

As soon as the last crack of glowing red was buried beneath the ice, he aimed a bright green blast at the magkong. With a mighty shattering sound, the creature was reduced to splinters.

The crowd went absolutely wild. Loki, victorious once more, turned his questing gaze around the arena. It seemed he could not stop searching for Thor any more than Thor could stop reaching out for him.

“Loki, I’m here!!” he cried out, voice thick with relief. 

The sharp eyes met his across the chaos. There was the shadow of a smile crossing those soft, thin lips. Or perhaps he was imagining it.

Then Loki swayed and fell onto his knees.

“No.”  _Loki. Please._ “Help him,” he urged the Grandmaster.

Elbows in the sand, Loki seemed to be using most of his energy just to stay conscious. As the second skin of his illusion fell away, Thor was shocked to see that at least a quarter of his body was covered in nasty burns. He was trembling from pain, and from the exhaustion of trying to heal himself. 

 _“Help him!!”_ he all but screamed at Topaz when the Grandmaster ignored him.

She looked down at him with a surprising flash of softness on her hard, imperious face. “He’s stronger than he looks. He’s recovered from worse.” Her eyes swept the crowd, whose cheers had subdued into an uncertain hum over what was next to come. 

“But what if…”

Topaz walked away, motioning for the clean-up army (comprising lower-ranking gladiators) to clear the battleground for the next duel.

“Wait!”

“He’ll live. Gast finds him incredibly entertaining. Paid well for him, too.” The flat but authoritative words were uttered by a young woman who had just dropped onto the bench next to his cage of a chair. She smelt of leather and whiskey.

“Paid for him? How much?” It was a stupid question to ask, and the least of Thor’s concerns, but his mind was clouded with hurt and rage and worry.

She smiled grimly. “I don’t reveal that information to others.”

“Wait. _You_ got paid…you were the one who found him?” She nodded, and he scowled. “So you’re a slaver.”

“I source gladiators, sweetheart. Not common slaves.” She gestured to the arena where Loki was preparing to receive his next opponent, charred and blistered skin slowly repairing itself. “Do you know how much power that lean bean is packing? Killed a string of champions to get where he is. 

“And yet he has to answer to that _madman.”_ Lightning bristled beneath his skin once more.

“Sshhh!” She waggled her eyebrows in the direction of the Grandmaster – or Gast, whatever his name was – currently occupied in entertaining a bevy of towering tentacled warlords. “He may be all smiles now, but you don’t want to get on his other side.” She patted his arm; he twitched at the condescending gesture. “Don’t worry. He’ll free you soon enough. Probably find a good job for you. How comfortable are you with being naked?”

_“What?”_

Just before sauntering away, she squinted at him. “I feel like I know you somehow. From another lifetime, maybe.” She produced a slim hipflask and raised it in his direction. “Cheers.”

It was then that he saw the slightly faded mark on her forearm. A familiar sigil he had known since early childhood. His eyes widened and he called out to her, but she was gone.

From his left, he heard the Grandmaster giving an order in that infuriatingly glib voice. The man’s actual words were drowned out by a new wave of bloodthirsty cheers. The door was lifting once again. Before he could see what new abomination his brother must battle next, he was being borne away, parted from Loki once more. He wondered if his brother had begun life on Sakaar in this same manner, tossed to and fro like a weed in the wind, struggling to hang on to a glimmer of hope.

And competing with these turbulent thoughts was the presence of the leather-clad woman. What in Yggdrasil was a Valkyrie doing on this gods-forsaken scrap of land?

 

~

 

**SAKAAR**

**WASTELANDS BORDER, 2012**

 

“Has he been searched? Cleaned?” 

“What do I look like, a babysitter? Clean him up yourself.” 

“The Grandmaster has had to be more selective after the outbreak of ‘21.”

“Do I get extra for polishing him up? Sticking my hand up his ass?”

“Eighty thousand, flat rate. Take it or leave it, scrapper.”

“Listen. I don’t mess with rogue sorcerers who are bound for a reason. I hauled him here because I think he has value. Possibly as a magic-worker.” Her eyes gleamed. “Possibly as a fighter.”

The Head Acquisitor’s head perked up. “A gladiator?”

Scrapper 142 tapped the cuffs on her bounty’s wrists. “See these? They’re of Asgard. Made to restrain a high level of sei– sorcery.” She took hold of her captive’s jaw, provoking a muffled snarl as she ran her fingers over the metal, the delicate carvings on the muzzle’s base. “Feel it.” They did so, begrudgingly at first and then with fascination at the slight sting in their flesh. “The static piercing your skin? That’s old magic in it.”

 _“Nggfhh mff hngglln,”_ muttered the captive sorcerer. He could have been saying “Leave me alone” or “I’ll break your limbs off.” He did not look much capable of the latter at the moment, though. Weakened by the steel enchantments and by 142’s blows earlier, he swayed woozily when pushed forward. Or perhaps he was exaggerating his weakness to spite her. 

“He doesn’t seem that powerful now,” the Acquisitor said doubtfully. “We’ll let the Grandmaster have a look.”

He tapped the mechanism attached to his wrist gauntlet, and a hologram of Topaz emerged. His voice switched to a much more deferential one. “My Liege-Lord? I request an audience.”

“He is busy. What do you want?”

“The Grandmaster seeks a new arena attraction. We have it.”

Her glance at the ‘attraction’ was dismissive. “He seeks a new champion. I don’t think you have it.”

Scrapper stepped forward. “Not yet, but with training, perhaps.”

“Who speaks without per –? Oh. You again.” 

“Liege-Lord Topaz, I have brought you four warriors over two years. All but one turned out to be champions. And two are close to winning their freedom. Hence the need for new material, surely.” The Acquisitor balked at being spoken over, but she paid him no heed.

“You know I don’t waste your time lightly. And you pay me fairly because you know worth when you see it. With all respect, Liege-Lord, I request fair payment for my efforts. In bringing you a future winner.” She lowered her head in place of a bow. Her kind did not bow easily. They never had.

“Hmm.” Topaz’s holographic lips pursed critically. She turned to the Head Acquisitor. “Strip him.”

“Grrffhhh!”

The crew did their job methodically, unflinchingly, as Scrapper stood back with her hands on her hips. It was standard procedure for both suspicious characters and those whose value warranted a second opinion. She couldn’t help but note that the sorcerer was one of those few creatures who looked even more beguiling unclothed.

The murderous eyes glared at her even as his cheeks burned and his lean muscles trembled with humiliation. He was thinner than she’d expected. Then again, his fighting style was likely not dependent on bulk or brute strength. Of more concern were what looked like bruises creeping up his spine and hipbones. Would the marks be taken as proof of battle experience, or cost her a few hundred silvers?

“Spread those pretty legs, sweetheart.” The Acquisitor delivered a smack to his rump, eliciting a growl. The green eyes flashed. It seemed he had finally been pushed too far.

There was a sharp rise in the air’s temperature as they felt hairs all standing on end. Clouds of loose gravel stirred from the ground and swirled around their legs. The land itself seemed to shudder. Then one of the clouds formed into a small hard ball and hit the largest Acquisition crew member, a Kronan, who fell over with a grunt. Another gravel putt whizzed around and narrowly missed taking 142’s head off.

“Subdue him, you slow-witted pokes,” came Topaz’s voice. The Acquisitor managed to slap an obedience disc onto the bared lower back. He hit the button of his controller, and a high-voltage dose of electricity shot through the sorcerer, turning him into a writhing mass. “Give up yet?” He let the captive twist and thrash a bit more before releasing the button.

When the dust settled and the sorcerer was reduced to a heavily panting heap on the ground, a glowing blue cube lay beside him. He moaned a faint protest as the Acquisitor picked it up. “What is this?”

Even in hologram form, Topaz’s eyes gleamed with sudden keenness. “Something beyond your pay level to know about.”

The naked sorcerer was struggling to his feet. He lunged for the cube, but was held back by the Kronan, who had recovered from his attack. “ _He_ clearly values it quite a bit,” said the Acquisitor, narrowing eyes at the captive. “What does he know that we should?”

“Are you defying me, Acquisitor?”

“No – no, of course not, Liege-Lord.”

“Good. Bring that cube to the Grandmaster’s Chambers, now. I will ensure your immediate access myself.”

“But the bounty…?”

“If you cannot trust your second man with an already subdued prisoner, I cannot trust you are qualified to keep your job.”

He was on the verge of muttering something, but thought better of it. Sliding the glowing cube into his bag, he left the task of a thorough search to a sallow-faced Shadow, the next in command.

It was a procedure the defeated sorcerer had no choice but to submit to. They bent him over and slid their fingers into him, prodded his armpits, his ears, leaving not an intimate inch untouched. They would have invaded his mouth if not for the muzzle that they had little knowledge of how to unlock, and perhaps dared not to. Hot tears gathered in his eyes. He just barely held them back.

Topaz watched the process from the device the Head had left behind and gave her approval, overseeing the transfer of eighty thousand silver credits to Scrapper 142. Her next brusque command was clear. “Make him presentable and bring him to the Grandmaster. No dallying.”

After she vanished, the Shadow smiled nastily and hit the newly acquired bounty with another electric shock until he was all but unconscious. They bound him in chains and the Kronan swung him over a shoulder as they headed back to the capital, and to the place where all new slaves of Sakaar must begin life anew 

 

~

 

The crowd chants his name. They know he will rise to the occasion or fall to the fate of an undignified death.

“Lo-ki! Lo-ki! Lo-ki!”

He has no choice but to heal. He closes his eyes and lets his magic, which he once took for granted as an endless fount, course through his veins and mend the blistered blackened skin. He stopped at what was necessary; the scars would have to stay for now. Give them a smile, strike a triumphant pose. Wear the marks of battle proudly (and still manage to look radiant).

They shower their love upon him as if he had not begun his career by taking the cocks of other gladiators. Or perhaps they love him more for it. His is the story of a slave who has fought his way to glory. And not all fights take place in stadiums.

The silver disc still adorns the small of his back. He may yet win his right to bargain for the right to be free of it. And for the prize he had lost when he was brought into Crown City naked and in chains. If only Thor had not interfered. Curse him, his fearsome strength and blundering love. Would he never learn?

The gate is lifting again. _Please, no more,_ mewls his small and terribly exhausted inner voice. He pushes it down the way he has done for six years. That is how he has survived those years. And it’s how he plans to survive now.

From the shadows of the pit, a pair of eyes glow and a puff of fire emerges. A Fillian dragon. No, _two_ dragons. Like a pair of terrible twins they emerge and sway their serpentine necks in synchrony. His mind races as he plans his attack in the brief sliver of time that he has before they turn their spiked tails and fire-breathing maws onto him. There is a slim chance yet for him to walk away victorious, his freedom and prize in sight. If nothing goes wrong.

The Grandmaster’s voice echoes through the massive amphitheatre. “Our grand Champion faces the final duel standing between him and his freedom! Will he defeat the legendary beasts once worshipped as the gods of Fillia?” 

From behind him, Loki hears a grating metallic roar. He turns to see a third dragon fixing its burning gaze on him. A fiery tongue lashes out, raining sparks onto the sand.

Loki feels his guts turn cold and his plan of attack crumble around his feet. _So this is how I die._ A more honourable exit than he expected.

“See you in Valhalla, Thor,” he murmurs.

 

~

 

Despite being sold on the promise of his battle prowess, he was found unworthy of admission into the gladiators’ circle.

By the time a seidr-worker was found who could remove the muzzle and cuffs (which was meant to be unfastened only by one Thor Odinson), the metal’s potent spellwork had sapped his magic to less than half of its full ability. Never had he been so embarrassed when presented before the great ruler and his court as a magician of great power, only to fail to knock so much as a lamp-orb off its stand, although he did manage to make it quiver a little.

The Grandmaster was not angered; in fact, he seemed greatly amused. “You’re cute when you strain like that, kitten. Isn’t he cute?” he said to Topaz, who only rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure we can find a use for you, uhh, what’s your name?”

“Loki.”

“Well, Kiki darling. You’re too pretty to be wasted on hard labour. But you’re tough; you got a little bite in you. A good combination. I know _just_ the thing for you.”

Loki tried for one more shot. “Grandmaster, if you please. I would like to be of service – personal service – to you. In exchange for something that was taken from me.” 

“Oh? What would that be?”

“He’s talking about the Stone,” Topaz interjected.

“Mmm, ohoho, is he? Interesting.” The Grandmaster’s eyes went from amused to intensely keen. “You’d have to be of great service to me indeed, kitten.”

“And I will. I promise to be worth your mercy…and a trifling stone of which you have no need, not with your powers greatly exceeding any being here.” 

“Ooh, you’re a sly one aren’t you? And what’ll stop you from scooting right off to goodness knows where once you get your paws on it? Afraid I can’t have that, kitten.” He wagged a finger. “No, you’re going to have to earn your freedom like everyone else.” He rose from his gaudily cushioned couch. “Topaz and I have matters of state to attend to, now, so…” He waggled his ringed fingers in an affected wave and winked. “I look forward to seeing more of you soon.” 

“But only gladiators get to battle for freedom – ”

The Grandmaster flicked a dismissive hand. “There are other ways. You’ll figure it out.”

And so he was sent to Pleasure Training. 

Weeks passed before he was allowed to spend more time on his feet than his knees. With the disc’s tiny claws firmly embedded in him, and the Space Stone, his only bargaining chip, now the property of the Grandmaster – as much as he was – there was no going back. The heft of his origins and status as royalty meant nothing now; they were but barbs with which to mock his fallen state.

Better to let his mouth be acquainted with cocks of various shades and sizes and hope they did not hunger for his other orifice as well. Although of course, he was prepared for that eventuality. The slave trainer kept him stretched open with a plug for the first seven days. When it had been first inserted, he could not perceive the act as anything other than humiliating. He soon saw it was a mercy, making some encounters less painful than it would have been otherwise.

If he cried in his sleep, he was not aware of it. His waking hours were spent largely numb and dry-eyed save for the involuntary tears that came when his gag reflex was put to the test. He had thought his brother’s cock prodigious; he soon thought otherwise when faced with the gargantuan, throbbing organs he was obligated to swallow.

At least their owners enjoyed watching him fail. They derived a lot of enjoyment from holding his head in place and watching him sloppily attempt to pleasure a cock the width of a tree. His reward was a faceful of come – spilled with vicious delight into his eyes, his hair, dripping down his neck.

“Heard he was real haughty when they brought him in. A high-and-mighty prince or something.”

“Well, he’s not so mighty now, is he?”

“Did they teach you anything useful, prince? Like how to suck cock?”

He refused to react to their taunts. But he could not refuse to serve.

 

The trainer had other devices besides plugs to manipulate or mould those in her charge to their purpose. She had control of their obedience discs, of course, but reducing a slave to a shuddering mass of limbs was not always effective when there were clients waiting for a body fit and able to serve their needs. Which is not to say that she did not employ them strategically. The ones who fought hardest also learnt quickest to obey the trigger of her finger poised over the slim device. It was the element of unpredictability that broke them down: the uncertainty of whether she would hit the button, or not.

One of the devices Loki was exposed to early on was the ring gag. When she saw that he showed remarkable promise in oral pleasure, she trained him to take on more. It began with a metal circle keeping his mouth open, fastened around his face with straps so that he was forced to accommodate any intrusion of any size and girth.

“Deep breath. Don’t struggle.”

“Nngghh.” His eyelids fluttered; he tried to breathe, and choked instead.

“And don’t throw up, or you know what happens.”

He threw up anyway, and bore the punishment for it.

There was a series of rings, each progressively bigger to the point where he swore his face would be split clean open. He loathed how they turned him into a slavering, drooling mess. He loathed the moneyed nobles who paid to be present at his training and get their pleasure from watching him being reduced to a creature without pride, tied up and spread out, his wet well-used mouth locked wide open and spilling unintelligible sobs as he was fucked in both ends. 

His throat was often sore for days, his voice reduced to a rasp. But then, conversation was seldom required of him. Some liked a bit of fight. But all demanded acquiescence in the end. 

And in the end, he gave it to them. He kept his head down, did as he was told, and did it well…until the day came when he stopped.

 

 


	2. Blood & Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to ensure there were no logic gaps and major holes, but plot tends to get away from me whenever I attempt it, so please forgive any obvious flaws (any any less obvious ones too). Thanks for reading -- and please leave a comment, of any length and nature, if you enjoyed it!

 

For the crown prince and future king of Asgard who had cooked his own food perhaps twice in two thousand years, Thor took to scrubbing floors surprisingly well. He appreciated the mindlessness of it, of not having to worry about the past and present he had left behind, his duties as an Avenger, and most of all the life of his beloved –

“Hey Thor, help me with this tricky chestplate, will ya?”

Korg, a large Kronan with a tiny voice, was the saving grace of this thankless planet as far as Thor was concerned. With not a cruel bone in his body (possibly because he was made mostly of rocks), he had greeted Thor like an old friend and introduced him to the duties of a bottom-rung gladiator, which included a lot of cleaning as well as oiling and repairing the armour of other higher-ranking fighters. “Not to worry, friend, you’ll be in the league of champions soon enough,” Korg had assured him. 

After a stretch of silence, Thor suddenly burst and threw the plate of armour he had been hammering into shape against the wall, ruining most of his hard work. He felt Korg’s cool, stony hand on his shoulder. “Hey man. What’s up?” 

His muscles tensed. “Don’t touch me.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. It’s hard work, but you get used to it.”

“It’s not…” He took a deep breath and felt tears at the back of his throat. “It’s driving me mad. I don’t know if my brother is still alive up there.”

“Your brother?” 

“Loki.” 

“Loki is your brother??” Korg dropped the weapon he’d been greasing with a _clang._ “I’d do anything to be able to fight with that legend.”

" _Legend?”_

“Well, soon to be. He’s the reigning favourite now. It’s partly his story’s that made him famous, too.” 

“What story?” 

Korg seemed thrilled to be the one to enlighten Thor. “Well, no one knows too much about his origins aside from that he was a prince of some sort. I suppose you were too.” Thor nodded numbly. “But the highlight of the tale is how he murdered the governor of Wukar who bought him as a slave. Killed him with his dormant magic powers…made a real mess. Guts everywhere.”

“And was he…punished?”

“He should’ve had his head lopped off! At least, that’s the Imperial way. Public execution, the works. But the Grandmaster was impressed enough to make him a gladiator instead. No fighters here have that level of sorcery, and he became famous for being the only one to walk into the arena unarmed and unarmoured.” Korg dropped the wrist gauntlet he had been repairing. “No need for these old scraps.”

Thor could not help the small flutter of pride. “I am proud of him.” 

“Oh, you probably should be. Loki’s about as powerful as any slave on Sakaar ever was. He done good for himself.”

The ground beneath their feet quivered faintly. This was followed by a roar that shook the amphitheatre to its very bowels. Thor’s heart turned to ice. “What does that mean?”

Korg’s fatalistic sigh was that of someone who had cleaned blood off too many battered shields. “It means someone won. And someone else is about to die.”

 

* 

 

Ashes, smoke and blood. The battleground was nearly unrecognisable from the damage of a fight to the death unlike any Sakaar had ever witnessed. And Loki the Legend of Asgard, Slayer of Champions, lay beneath the last dragon-god of Fillia as it prepared to take his life. 

He had called on every ounce of his every ability, including a few he didn’t know he had. Toward the end of the fight, he had felt his jotun blood – which had not resurfaced for years – turn his flesh blue and hard so he would last that final stretch. He would never have the strength of a full-grown frost giant, but it was enough to make the difference between dying well and disintegrating in a charred heap.

The crowd’s adulation intensified when his eyes turned blood-red and the raised markings of his royal jotun lineage crawled over his skin. Dead or alive, they would remember this spectacular sorcerer for centuries to come.

Now, as he lay in the sand, his body – so used to its Aesir-skin – turned him pale and soft once more. Loki felt something clogging his throat, knowing it was blood and not daring to cough lest he wreck his innards further. Something was broken inside. A jagged bone ripping into a vital organ. 

He tried to heal himself. He succeeded halfway at best. Perhaps he would become whole enough only to expire from expending the very last of his energies. At the least, he would die pretty. That was a small comfort. He would hate for Thor to have to look upon his body in a mangled, undignified state. Eight years may be a blink in the span their lives, but in that time he had suffered enough indignities to last over two.

“End it,” he rasped. The dragon prepared to fulfil his wish. 

Except it never got to. A dazzling web of lightning crossed the domed roof of the arena. There was the familiar _whuuunnggg_ of Mjolnir flying through the air. Followed by the obscenely meaty, bone-and-flesh sound of the uru-forged weapon doing its work. The Fillian dragon’s head landed beside Loki, the fire in its shocked unblinking eye going out. 

A golden-haired shadow fell over him. Large, strong arms lifted him up ever so gently. “I am so sorry, brother. You’re safe now…I’ll make sure of it…” 

He wanted to reply, but he barely had strength to breathe. His every inhalation was the reedy rasp of the dying. The Grandmaster’s voice was making some distant, unimportant proclamation. Probably ordering their execution.

He wanted to tell Thor to leave. That he was not worthy of saving – that he would have flown this cursed planet without a second thought of leaving Thor behind. One of them deserved to go on. The other…well…

_“I accept!”_

Thor bellowed his answer to a challenge that had escaped Loki’s faltering consciousness. Just before he slipped away, he heard Thor call out: 

“I will fight in his place. I will be your Champion.”

 _Damn it, Thor, you idiot,_ he thought before everything went black. 

 

~

 

Once marked by that dreaded silver disc engraved with its owner’s name, there are three ways to escape slavery on Sakaar:

  1. Become a Champion in the gladiatorial arena, and battle for one’s freedom


  1. Be bought by a master who may be willing to release you from servitude (after a minimum of five years served)


  1. Death.



Loki had dared hope for the first route. He had to work his way there via the second. He had first been bought by Elloe Kaifi, an Imperial noble-born, before her family was exiled after her father led a failed rebellion against the Imperial ruling class. She was a distant, stand-offish type who was frankly disinterested in sex. Her parents had acquired him for his noble features and mannered speech in the hopes that he might give their stubbornly unbetrothed daughter comely offspring. They ended up forming a tentative friendship based on the fact that neither of them wished to fuck the other.

When the insurgent movement failed, Elloe’s father was among the first to be executed (or ‘melted’, as was the common term here). He never saw her or her family again. He remembered trying to slip away only in the chaos, only to feel the disc that had not tormented him since becoming Elloe’s property suddenly knock him down with a wave of paralysing pain.

He looked up to see the slim controller device in the hand of Denebo Aruc the Third, governor of Wukar and staunch Imperial loyalist.

“A pleasure slave,” he said in an unctuous voice, reading the engraving on his disc. “Belonging to Elloe of the House of Kaifi.” The sharp point of a spear tilted his head up. “Did Mistress Elloe teach you no manners, servant?" 

Ruthless, trained arms hauled him into a proper kneeling position as befitted a slave before a titled official. He glared back defiantly. “She was pleased enough with what manners I had." 

“And yet she has abandoned you. Well, no matter. The name of Kaifi is henceforth erased from all records and recognition for their betrayal.” Loki barely suppressed a shiver as he added, “Which means, pretty one, that you are bound to a new master now.”

To his lieutenants, he said: “Take him to my quarters.”

Something cool and sharp pierced the side of his neck. A second later he felt his limbs droop, then his eyelids. The world melted into a dark swirl of nothingness.

When he next woke, he thought himself back in one of the unpleasant little chambers in Pleasure Training reserved for difficult slaves. His arms were stretched taut by chains attached to leather cuffs on his wrists; a metal bar held his ankles apart. Worst of all, he was blindfolded. Aruc had decided his new acquisition needed taming, and he was not the sort of man to ease into things. Punishment that came by his hand came swiftly and decisively. And he was not afraid to use pain as and when he saw fit.

Loki’s dreams would be hounded by the sound of an unseen whip for years. 

His master was fond of symmetry and order. Each whipmark down his pale back and his thighs were beautiful, precise, the left and right mirroring each other in their subtle curves. Aruc would let them fade only to inflict new ones, although it was hard to gauge from his cold impassive gaze how much enjoyment he derived from the process. Doubtless he was proud of the effect. Indeed, his pride was as fearful as his swift judgment; daring to tarnish the former brought on the latter inevitably and savagely. The slightest hint of disobedience in public resulted in heavy-handed use of the disc’s electric embrace behind closed doors, in that dark little room where only velvet shadows heard your screams and felt no mercy.

The last day of his servitude fell on the evening of the Gala, known formally as the Feast Of The Felling. Originally commemorating the end of the great Spike War, this celebration was where those who wished to proclaim power or wealth and those who wished to court it both turned up in all their glory.

Denebo Aruc III was no longer content with presiding over the small province of Wukar that was all too dependent on Crown City for its prospering economy. He wished to secure a place in the seat of Imperial power. To sit at the left hand of the Grandmaster himself the way Topaz of Gwendor sat at his right. And while rigidly modest in his regular dress, he knew how to flaunt the precise amount of lavishness the occasion demanded. 

Because of this, Loki’s body was left unsullied save for the silver circle on his lower back; and even that was adorned with gold ink extending to the bottom of his bared shoulder bones in a delicate pattern. Gold was the colour of the reigning Imperials. And Loki was decadently but tastefully decked in its warm glimmer. The centrepiece of his ensemble: a stunningly ornate necklace bearing perfect replicas of the Infinity Stones (including an exquisite double of the one Loki had lost, glowing a hypnotic blue on his left clavicle). This masterpiece of craft bordered on audacious, true: it might even be taken as a challenge to those in the highest echelons. There were few bolder ways to garner the favours of those seeking to rise with him.

And here on Sakaar, fortune favoured the bold – if the bold were born to fortune.

As he sat before the mirror, the necklace like a cold noose around his neck, he was reminded of Thanos’ unending quest for the real Infinity gems and his reckless entanglement in the Mad Titan’s mission that now weighed heavy on his head. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. “May I take it off for a while, please?” he begged.

“You may not. It becomes you well, more so than I expected. You will wear it until we leave the Gala.”

“Please, my lord.”

“Silence. Do you wish to earn yourself a whipping after tonight?”

Utterly miserable, Loki rose to pace the length of the dressing chamber after his master had left it, feeling tears of nameless dread trickle down his face and knowing he would be punished for ruining the artfully applied makeup. He had not cried in years. Something irrepressible was welling up inside him, and it had chosen this most inopportune moment to do so.

The walls alone heard the sobs that built up and spilt forth despite all his efforts to hold them back. It would be wise to get this over with, clean up his face and repaint it. Swallow the terror of the years. Pain was temporary. He could survive this.

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead and palms to the long oval mirror. As he concentrated on taking slow deep breaths, he heard a crack. His eyes flew open. He watched in horror as the glass against which his hand rested splintered and spread a web of cracks all through the smooth surface. Then the entire mirror shattered and fell into a heap of shards on the carpet. 

Panic rose in his throat. He felt the room spin. The chair beside him suddenly flew against the wall. His eyes fell to a stray comb and sent it clattering wildly across the floor. He looked down at his hands and the tingle in his fingertips.

His magic. It was coming back, and in a way he had no control of.

Aruc would make him pay terribly for that mirror. Should he flee? He had to. What choice did he have?

He should return the necklace so as not to be branded a thief. As far as he was concerned, Aruc could take this glittering obscenity and shove it up his arse. In a half-blind daze he fumbled at his neck, looking for the clasp. Another sizzle of magic escaped his fingers. And before he could restrain it, the dazzling piece of jewellery crumbled into a rain of shining metal pieces and false Infinity stones at his feet.

Aruc chose that very moment to return, resplendent in gold-trimmed leather and velvet. His face went very pale and still and fierce when he saw the destroyed necklace.

“It was an accident, my lord,” Loki all but wept. 

He curled up in the most subservient position he knew, head to the floor, hoping for a sliver of mercy. After a long, long moment, he heard Aruc’s soft command.

“Raise your head. Look at me.”

He obeyed – and immediately felt the clamp of fingers like steel around his neck. The pressure grew and grew, squeezing all breath from his windpipe, seconds away from crushing bone.

“You will die for this, slave,” said Aruc in the same soft voice. “And no one will mourn you.” His cold eyes were like dark glass as he proceeded to carry out his promise. “You will die as you lived: a pathetic whore. Abandoned by one master and disposed of by the next because he was good for nothing.” 

He felt an odd, ghostly sensation from across the borders of space and time. In another dimension, this is how he died: with a tyrant’s hand around his throat. He heard phantom voices infuse his own reality here and now. Among them was Thor’s anguished cry. Thor bending over his lifeless body.

Loki scrabbled desperately at the iron hands strangling him and turning the world to black….

But instead of death, an icy fury filled his veins. Anguish turned to anger. Fear turned to madness, but a madness twisted and focused into a single-minded maelstrom.

He heard his own voice, from within this time, like a spirit that has already left its shell.

_Not here. Not now._

The sound of Thor crying like a child. Unbearable.

_This is not the end, brother._

And then the walls began to shake. 

Where Loki’s fingernails dug into Aruc’s hands, the governor’s flesh hardened and turned to ice. Aruc watched in shock as the dark frost crept up his arms. He released his grip and stumbled back, but Loki had taken hold of his wrists. And the tables had turned.

He looked into the eyes of his slave. They had turned a startling red, not unlike the Reality stone replica lying splintered on the floor. Raised markings in an ice-blue were creeping over the comely countenance that was now possessed by uncontrollable rage. His wrists, then his arms, were turning into hoarfrost. 

Loki rose, and tore off the governor’s arms as the latter screamed in agony and in shock. In a brittle rasp, he uttered his last words as a servant of Denebo Aruc III.

_“You will not touch me again.”_

 

* 

 

After realising he would never rise to the rank of Champion and earn the status of a free citizen, Miek ‘The Knife’ retired his gladiator career and sought a peaceful existence – or at least a less life-threatening form of servitude. He was meticulous by nature and excelled at keeping the most sprawling of domiciles clean. His masters treated him well enough, kept him in comfort, and even occasionally paid him. 

So when a bloody-sounding explosion occurred in the private quarters of Denebo Aruc III, who had borrowed his sanitation services for the night, his first instinct was to hide until the commotion had settled down.

From behind an austere statue of Aruc’s likeness, Miek watched in fascinated terror as the governor’s slave emerged, clad in gold and dripping blood from face to feet. His smooth pale skin was mottled with fading azure and intricate markings swirling serpent-like down his shoulders. When he cast his eyes in Miek’s direction, the ex-gladiator saw that they were crimson. As red as the rivulets soaking into his garb.

Loki raised his head to the sky. His hands were no longer trembling; his face was still and serene save for the wide staring eyes. Above them, the watcher-drones that guarded the Imperial oligarchy and its subordinates relegated all that they saw onto screens across Crown City. And the legend of Loki the Rogue Slave, Loki the Mad Sorcerer, planted its roots firmly in the minds of those who saw his bloodied countenance splashed across their walls.

The Grandmaster was, naturally, intrigued. His eyes lit up like a festival as he paused in his duties as The Feast’s master of ceremonies. “That’s my kitten,” he murmured with what sounded almost like pride.

 

~

  

The arena was abuzz with a thick new kind of excitement as the spectacular, gore-filled battle for one Champion’s freedom took a sharply unexpected turn. The sorcerer’s brother had appeared seemingly out of thin air, slaying the Fillian dragon where it stood with a specially forged weapon none but him could wield.

If the Grandmaster was as taken aback as everyone else, he hardly showed it. With what seemed like triumphant delight rather than defeat, he pronounced Loki, Slayer of Champions a free citizen – but that Thor, having influenced the victory, must take his brother’s place as a gladiator.

In other words, a slave who must fight for his freedom the Sakaaran way.

Thor agreed. And just like that, their places were switched. He kissed Loki’s pale, bruised face, not caring what anyone thought of the display of affection. It might well be their last kiss, even if Loki was not awake to receive it. He hoped some part of his brother could hear him, though.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He never got to finish his apology. A garish orange vessel crashed right into the arena and caused a flurry of chaos. Its curved lid lifted and the woman with the Valkyrie tattoo yelled at them from the pilot’s seat:

_“Get in the ship if you want to not die!”_

A simple enough command that took Thor less than a second to think about. Perhaps she might be working for the Grandmaster, or have her own self-serving motives; but it was a gamble they’d have to take. Thor leapt into the ship with Loki in his arms and they were speeding off into the sky, leaving a frenzied auditorium behind as they blazed themselves into a legend that would be told and retold among Sakaarans through the ages.

In the mad scramble, he did not see the pile of rocks huddled awkwardly in the corner until it spoke. “Good to see you, mate!”

He nodded at Korg. In the present situation he could not be bothered to ask what the Kronan was doing there, but he was glad for the friendly face.

The Valkyrie woman steered the ship with some struggle, clearly not being a seasoned pilot. Either that or she was a little drunk. She seemed to wear the smell of alcohol like a second skin. Thor saw that they were headed for the same dark swirling vortex through which he had fallen when he chased Loki through the time-warping wormhole. “We’re going through the Anus,” she said.

“The what?”

“It’s what the locals call it.” She let go of the controls long enough to fasten her seatbelt and gestured to them to do the same. Gingerly, Thor eased Loki’s battered body into a seat and tried to belt him in tight enough to withstand the passage through the beastly butthole-in-the-sky. As he adjusted the buckles, Loki stirred and moaned _. “Don’t hurt me,”_ he seemed to be murmuring in a small delirious voice.

“I won’t – don’t worry – " 

_“I’ll be good, my lord…please…”_

The abject plea was like a knife in Thor’s guts. At the same time, the woman called out: “They’re coming! Buckle up and do it fast, I’m going through _now.”_

Sure enough, the sound of ammo blasters were on their tail. Thor turned to see Topaz piloting a small but loaded warship and aiming her guns in their direction. Her regal features contorted in a mask of fury as the Valkyrie shot them clumsily but effectively through the great Anus. With a deafening whoosh they made the leap, escaping into the emptiness of space.

In the quiet that fell, Loki’s laboured breaths filled the small vessel. His head was lolling restlessly as his features quivered with pain. Thor unbuckled him, and he slid limply into his brother’s arms while throwing up a thin stream of blood and bile. He had managed to heal himself enough to hang on to life, but it looked as if he was hanging on by a few very thin threads.

“So where are we headed to?”

Thor blinked, surprise seeping into his cloud of worry. “I thought you knew.”

She shrugged. “My plan only goes this far.”

“Yeah, we didn’t think this through too much. It was sort of impromptu,” Korg piped up.

“Why are you helping us?” 

She smiled grimly and pushed her chin at Loki. “He could probably tell you how responsible I am for what that happened to him. And to you, consequently.” Her eyes drifted to rest absently on some distant nebulae. “I didn’t use to be a terrible person. Just trying to survive, like anyone else. Like anyone who lost everything.”

“You…” He pointed at her forearm. “You’re of Asgard. Aren’t you?”

“Was.”

“And you were a Valkyrie. No – you _are_ a Valkyrie. I remember the code of honour, having wanted to be one when I was a boy. ‘Forever sworn to defend all of Asgard to death and beyond.’ You cannot wear that mark otherwise.” 

Her eyes twinkled in faint amusement at his boyish recitation of the vow. “It’s only a mark now. I ceased to be worthy of it a long time ago.” She sighed, and her mouth hardened again. “Tell me where to drop you off and I’ll be on my way.”

Thor looked down at Loki, brushing a lock of hair off the feverish forehead. “He needs Asgard’s healers. Will you take us there?”

Her entire body tensed as if the thought was anathema to her very bones, even if traces of her warrior’s honour stood her fast. “Is it still a land of massacre and bloodbaths?”

“ _What?_ No – Norns, is this the same Asgard we speak of?”

“I speak of the Asgard I left behind. I _am_ the last of the Valkyria because – ” Her eyes were suddenly shining, and she abruptly turned away. After a long silence, she said, “I’ll drop you off.”

“Thank you.”

“If you knew the things I’ve done on Sakaar, you wouldn’t thank me.”

Korg shifted in his seat. “Hey, uh…I don’t know if this is presumptuous, but…” His usual ebullience was replaced with hesitance.

“Speak freely, friend.”

“Is uh, is Asgard welcoming towards refugees, or do they have more of a prisoners-with-jobs system?”

“Are you thinking of staying?” said Thor.

“I am definitely considering it. I’m sure I can be of use. I mend, I clean, I cook a mean trizelle stew…”

He clasped a stony shoulder. “As a prince of my people, I declare that you are welcome in Asgard for as long as you choose to stay.”

“Thank you, friend.”

“And not as a prisoner with – we don’t do that.” He smiled in what he hoped was an assuring manner. “Not anymore.” He frowned at all the questions he had for his father, wondering if he would ever have the chance to ask them.

The Valkyrie added, “Also there aren’t any trizelle on Asgard. We’re more into boar and bilgesnipe.”

“Yes, we are,” Thor said, warming to her unconscious use of the pronoun. She seemed to catch his drift of thought and scowled.

“Won’t you stay for some roast boar, Valkyrie?”

“That’s a job description, not my name.”

“It could be yours. None else are left to claim it.” 

“Hmphh.” Her scowl faded a little. “Has a nice ring; beats ‘Scrapper’, anyway.”

“And there is mead to go with the boar… _proper_ mead, the stuff of poetry and song and wisdom.”

She allowed herself a grin. “Now we’re talking.”

“So will you stay…Valkyrie of Asgard?”

“I’m definitely considering it.” She looked at the younger prince of Asgard resting against the elder, his face unjaded and free of bitterness in repose. “Though I’m sure not everyone will be as welcoming.”

 

~

 

**CROWN CITY**

**THE DOME, 2017**

 

The light of Sakaar’s Broken Moon cast fractured shadows on the silver jewel-like Dome, whose curved roof mirrored that of the Arena but whose interiors were dedicated to a different sort of competition. In this glamour-saturated gem at the fringe of the capital, the wealthy and beautiful vied wordlessly to outshine each other while also sampling the novelties nested in its hive of linked chambers.

Tonight, the heart of the Dome was dedicated to a celebration of one who had risen to power against the odds, and done it spectacularly. A servant who had shaken the very roots of the oligarchy by getting away with murder. And a reminder to those in power that none held more of it than En Dwi Gast, the Grandmaster and game-maker whose whim could decide where one’s chips fell.

For the newly minted Champion sitting triumphant and demure at Gast’s side, it was clear where his had fallen. The deep burgundy of his brocade tunic and the shine of his wrist gauntlets echoed the blood and gold that had played such a part in his vicious, sudden rise to glory.

Contrary to basking in his elevated status, his manner was both gracious and guarded. His eyes were perpetually watchful of the same flattering courtiers and officials who had been so eager to debase him before he had been worthy to swill cocktails among them. The bejewelled Kree dignitary who now demanded to hear in detail how he had painted the governor’s walls with his own guts had been present at a slave training show (one of the closed-door, nonexistent events known to none but a select few) where Loki and two other trainees had been the evening’s entertainment. He still recalled the mingling smells of sex and leather – her expensive undergarments, soaked through with her fluids, pushed into his mouth and held in place with a soft yet sturdy gag that cleaved snugly to his face as he lowered his head and let her tell him what an obedient pretty thing he was.

And how he recoiled from his own abhorrent instinct to even now drop to his knees before him. _How may I pleasure you, mistress?_ He even felt those words at the tip of his tongue. Never had he been more aware of the disc embedded in his lower back, no longer exposed now that he occupied a higher rung of servitude, but still placing him at the mercy of the one who had elevated him. 

“I trust you enjoyed my little gift,” said the Kree in a pleasant low alto.

He stiffened and he hastily conjured a small spell to keep his cheeks from burning. Even without the power to muzzle him and make him perform, the words froze him in place.

She brushed her fingers against the gauntlets he wore and added, “I had these specially made, you know. I do hope you like them.”

He felt himself choke, and forced himself to speak evenly. “These…are yours?”

She nodded. Her artful socialite smile gave nothing away as she looked keenly at him now, which made him burn as he twisted his lips and tongue to form obligatory words of thanks. Only when she turned away did he find his limbs freed from the paralysis borne of fury, but also of dread and shame. His entire frame was trembling, he was sure of it. His hard-won dignity threatened to slip away.

Loki’s vision was a blur as he made his way outside of the Dome’s suffocating shell. He felt faint all of a sudden, his perfectly fitted tunic inexplicably tight. With shaking fingers he fumbled to shed the exquisitely crafted gauntlets that he now wanted nowhere near his being. 

_He was spread out for her viewing pleasure, the sodden fabric filling his mouth to remind him of his purpose here tonight, as a phallus made of a crystalline substance was pushed into him inch by merciless inch. All the while her cool fathomless eyes drank in every inch of his subjugated, suffering flesh, appraising him like a work of art. He half expected to be branded with her name the way some slaves were when they were bought in advance of completing their training. But she never did come back for him, and his flesh remained unmarked. Only that unwanted memory of her stare, her sex on his tongue and throat, would remain…_

“You’ve done well for yourself,” said a loathsomely familiar voice. He blinked back the tears that had been forming, surprised that he no longer felt the vitriol he expected when confronted with an unusually well-dressed Scrapper.

“I’m starting to wonder if there is anyone in this place who has not seen me naked and in chains,” he said 

“I’ve seen many people naked and in chains,” she replied.

“A fact I’m sure you’re proud of.” 

“Not at all. It’s just part of the job.” She seemed to fumble with her next words, which was quite unlike her. “I…Listen. I would apologize, but things are a bit past that now, aren’t they?”

“I wasn’t asking for your apology.”

“I’m giving it nonetheless. A crime doesn’t stop being a crime because you’re paid for it.”

His gaze pricked the spot on her left forearm. “I suppose _you’d_ know better about the upholding of moral codes.” Her eyes followed his and flashed back up, something naked – fearful – on her face before her walls fell back down. “Oh, don’t be so afraid,” he scoffed. “I noticed it years ago when I had to misfortune of meeting you. Bit of a surprise; I thought the Valkyria were long dead.”

“They are.”

He looked her up and down. “Don’t tell me _you_ were invited to the party, dead Valkyrie.”

She smiled. “Us bottom-feeders have our own parties to go to. Although I wouldn’t mind wearing those if you’re not having them. Might add a little something to my outfit.” 

He saw her eyeing the gauntlets he had cast to the ground and kicked them toward her. “Knock yourself out.”

As she picked them up and started to put the first one on, the metal screeched and grew searingly hot before disintegrating into tiny shards that cut into her flesh and made her gasp. She looked up to see a green glimmer fading back into his palm.

“On second thought,” he said, “I can’t bear the sight of those things. And they don’t become you half as much.” He walked away back into the Dome as she stared at his retreating back, blood dripping from her hands.

 

~

 

"He will learn to live with it. He's had to make his peace with much, much worse than you."

" _I've_ yet to learn to make peace with anything. And I've lived far longer than you, Odinson." 

"So you're old and bitter. I'm sure there's a cure for that." She snorted, and he grinned.

Thor cradled Loki’s head and smoothed out his hair, wondering if his fully conscious brother would ever allow such tenderness out of their private chambers. At this moment, the legendary Slayer of Champions seemed content to curl up in his lap like a child. The pain that had made his features gaunt had receded; he now looked merely exhausted and bruised. There were shadows beneath his eyes and other small signs of prolonged battle wear his illusion-skin had hidden when he first appeared. 

Loki flickered in and out of wakefulness. On occasion he would twitch as if in the throes of a nightmare, and a whimper would escape his lips that were so soft and guileless as they never were when fully aware of his surroundings. Once, his entire body stiffened so much that Thor was afraid he would reopen some of his wounds, and declared in a strangely clear voice: “You’ll never touch me again.” 

And then his fingers had clamped around Thor’s wrist almost hard enough to hurt as his breath became laboured and a tear trickled down his face, upon which Valkyrie and Korg tactfully and promptly found something else to divert their attention.

Someday, he would make Loki tell him all about his years as a slave. Or perhaps not, if he preferred not to regurgitate such traumas. It was the future that mattered now. A future where the threads of their lives were intertwined, as the fates meant them to be.

As he was dozing off to the warmth of Loki’s body against his and to the gentle rhythm of Korg’s soft snores, an approaching light tickled his eyes awake.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful it looks from afar.” Valkyrie’s voice was soft with new awe.

Thor looked up to see what he could only describe as a sunrise in space. Shades of rose and gold and miraculous sky-blue beckoned from the comfortless deep like a great beacon.

“I promise you,” said Thor, “it’s even better up close.”

She sniffed. “It’s not on fire. That’s an improvement.”

Someday, even the Realm Eternal must fall, gnawed by the corruption and lies that plagued every land. Nothing truly was forever. But for now, it was more than enough. Even for demigods who must outlast the millennia.

With the aid of Thor’s guidance, Valkyrie steered the vessel to where the gleam of the Bifrost marked the great golden gates. Loki’s eyes fluttered open to catch the light of this impossible dawn. Asgard’s warm halo beckoned – the welcoming glow of home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Val's rescue-scene line was a small homage to Lego Movie, because watching Lego Movie 2 reminded me how much I love Lucy.


End file.
